Alicia Martinez is determined to keep a low profile. After a tough year, she deletes all of her social media and retreats to the small coastal town of St Andrews in the hopes of starting over - and avoiding her tumultuous past.
Oliver Hogarth is a...
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Oliver was already regretting the headset.
He had only been driving for five minutes, and Brooks had managed to recap this week's episode of Bake-Off (Tim's lemon tart had been a disaster), what he'd eaten for dinner (fish and chips) and his thoughts on adopting parrots as pets (generally negative). By the time Oliver parked outside the golf shop that Alicia worked at, he was losing his mind.
"Brooks?"
"Yes?"
"We're mates now, right?"
"I like to think so."
Oliver gritted his teeth. "In that case, can you do me a favour?"
"Sure thing."
"Kindly shut-up."
"Ah. Right." There was an embarrassed pause. "Use the headset in emergencies only. Duly noted."
Oliver knocked on the door. A moment later, Alicia appeared, dressed in jeans, a white hoodie, and a pair of trainers. His heart lurched. It was criminal, really, that she could look so good in nothing fancy. He suspected she'd look even better in nothing at all.
He gave himself a mental shake.
No. Bad thoughts.
He only had one shot at this; he couldn't screw it up.
Should he shake her hand? No. That was weird. But kissing her cheek felt too intimate, somehow. He settled on a hug, at the same time that Alicia went for a peck on the cheek. Their heads cracked together.
She flinched. "Ow!"
Stars exploded in front of his eyes. Oliver cursed colorfully, rubbing at his nose. Brooks snickered into his headset.
"Very smooth, Hogarth."
Oliver glowered. "Will you shut-up?"
"What?" Alicia frowned. "I haven't said anything yet."
Oliver froze. Oh, god.
"Not you," Oliver said hurriedly. "I meant the..." He cast around for inspiration. "That gate. By the shop. Yeah. It's really loud tonight, with the wind."
Brooks snickered some more. Oliver made a mental note to melt down all of his bodyguard's beloved guns and turn them into decorative sculptures. Alicia looked at Oliver as if he had gone mad. Which, he supposed, was entirely fair, given that he appeared to be shouting at non-animate objects.
She scooped up her purse. "Shall we go?"
Mercifully, the hour-long drive into Edinburgh went far better. Alicia chatted about a golfer from Dublin that she had caddied for the previous day, doing a rather impressive Irish accent, and Oliver managed to keep the car on the road — no small feat, considering that he had once driven into a neighbour's mailbox. His driver, James, was always saying that it was a good job Oliver was a celebrity, or he would have paid a fortune in fines by now.
